After More Than Five Months on Death Row, Laci's Killer Attempts to Settle In, Adopting a Nickname but Steering Clear of His Fellow Inmates

It has been more than a month since Scott Peterson arrived on the East Block of San Quentin's notorious death row. But so far Peterson shows few signs of wanting to stray from his cell. When given the opportunity each day to stroll alone in a fenced area adjacent to the general exercise yard, he has declined all but two times. Soon, if Peterson wants to be outside, his only option will be to mingle with his fellow condemned, and no one will be surprised if he continues to balk. "It's not uncommon," says San Quentin spokesperson Vernell Crittendon of Peterson's apparent trepidation. "Inmates want to have an adjustment period before they go out and begin interacting with others—particularly a person like Scott Peterson, who comes from the better walk of society."

Any normal person—or hardened felon, for that matter—would likely feel on edge facing the 65 to 80 other death-row inmates in what will likely be Peterson's "exercise group"—the coterie of cons who are allowed in the yard at the same time. There is, for instance, Edward Charles III, who in 1996 was convicted of killing his parents and his 20-year-old brother in Fullerton and sentenced to death. Not to mention Ivan Gonzales, who in 1995 tortured and murdered his 4-year-old niece in Chula Vista. Found guilty last Nov. 12 of killing his wife, Laci, and their unborn child, Peterson, 32, is clearly the most infamous of this group, and it's still unknown how other inmates will respond to him. But it's safe to say that there are thousands of people who wish him the worst. "There are some people who don't belong among normal human beings, and we need to do away with them the same way we do rabid dogs," says Carole Carrington, a friend of Laci's mother, Sharon Rocha. Adds Carrington, who lost a daughter and granddaughter to another killer: "He's guilty as hell and I think he ought to go there."

Death row maybe bleak, and inmates may crumble in despair, but Peterson is actually physically safer on death row than he would have been in a general prison population, where he would not have had an individual cell and where violent gangs flourish. "By and large, death row is a very restricted environment," says James Anderson, a former prosecutor in California's Alameda County. "Sure, people do get assaulted there, but that's fairly rare." And in any case, much to the disappointment of Carrington and others, the boundlessly arrogant Peterson seems to be largely unfazed by his conditions. He has cheerfully adopted the nickname bestowed on him by some of his admiring female correspondents: Scottie-Too-Hottie. "He received it in the mail," says Crittendon, "but he's the one who made it known." He also moved out of the Adjustment Center and into the East Block "much more quickly than most" says a source inside San Quentin. "Some people never get out of the Adjustment Center, but he moved from what's called Grade B to Grade A, which has far more privileges." In prison parlance Peterson is programming. "He's doing what the officers are asking him to do," says the source. "He's not causing any problems."

Meanwhile Peterson's mom and dad, Jackie, 61, and Lee, 66, continue to fight to improve even the smallest detail of their son's daily life, lobbying, for instance, for him to get the best TV available to inmates. (For the record, once assigned to their regular cell block, all inmates are allowed to purchase a television, provided that it is no larger than 13 inches and is used only to receive over-the-air broadcast channels.) The Petersons declined to comment, but one family friend says their belief in their son's innocence remains unshaken. "From what I hear, Lee is taking it pretty hard," says the source, who also continues to believe in Scott. "They were really upset at the verdict, but the whole family is confident the truth will come out. Scott's keeping his spirits pretty high. He has the attitude that he didn't do anything wrong, and he's waiting for the day when he can come out and do his ha-ha dance and tell the world, 'See, I didn't do it.' "

Peterson has an approved list of 20 people who are allowed to meet with him for what are called "contact visits," meaning the person or persons get locked in a monitored holding room with him for up to four hours three days a week; no touching more intimate than hand holding is permitted except for greeting and goodbye hugs and kisses. (And definitely no conjugal visits.) Prison rules forbid disclosing who is on the list, but in Peterson's case it is known to contain lawyers and family-his parents make the 500-mile trip from San Diego about once a week-plus about four friends and a member of the clergy. (Peterson doesn't yet have a lawyer to handle his appeal, which is likely to take years.) One of the visitors is a former member of his defense team, "a young woman who is very attractive," says the source inside San Quentin. "She visits fairly regularly."

Peterson is also allowed to receive unlimited amounts of mail (but no Internet access). When first brought to San Quentin, he got as many as 85 letters a week. That total soon dipped a bit, but recently, as the result of a Web site featuring comments from him that is run by a Canadian organization opposed to the death penalty (People, Aug. 15), the numbers have picked up once again.

Crittendon won't say how many missives come from female fans, but the word in the prison, where about 25 percent of the correctional officers are women, is that Peterson has lost none of his eagerness to charm the ladies. Lance Corcoran, the vice president of the state's correctional officers' union, says he was touring the prison this spring with then-warden Jill Brown, who passed along a telling observation. "She said he was very reserved with male staff," says Corcoran, "but that a light came on, if you will, around the female staffers." Adds Crittendon: "He's a very polite guy. He says 'good morning' and 'thank you very much' to everyone."

The numbing indignities that are a part of prison life may eventually fray that genteel manner. Every time he leaves his cell, whether for a twice weekly shower or a visit, Peterson is strip-searched. When being moved within the facility, prisoners wear nothing more than their white boxers, T-shirts, socks and a cheap pair of canvas shoes. While in their cell, they are allowed to don their regular denim jeans and blue work shirts. Assuming that he decides someday to venture out into the exercise yard, which is permitted from 7 a.m. to noon each day, Peterson will discover a less than stimulating environment—just a basketball hoop, chin-up and sit-up bars and a single table for cards or chess.

On the upside, though, the food is "quite good," says one source with knowledge of the prison. The hot breakfast, which like all meals on death row is taken in the cells, includes bacon and eggs and fried potatoes, while lunch is typically a sandwich and a piece of fruit in a brown bag. "Dinner," says the source, "is anything from steak—not cooked to order, of course, but a piece of meat—to pasta." As a death row inmate, Peterson has no prison job, though he is expected to keep his cell tidy. Failure to do so can result in a punishment known as "property control," in which items such as TVs or CD players are taken away from the offending inmates. (Under normal circumstances, prisoners can have eight CDs and six paperbacks at any one time; an early choice of Scott's was Roald Dahl's sex-themed comic novel My Uncle Oswald.)

For the team who put Peterson behind bars, post-trial life has brought a host of new challenges. On July 9 lead prosecutor Rick Distaso was appointed to a judgeship in Stanislaus County Superior Court. With the retirement of county district attorney James Brazelton in July, prosecutor Birgit Fladager, who many observers believe delivered a late-inning boost to the state's case against Peterson, announced that she would run for the post in next year's election. "I got lots of encouragement from inside the D.A.'s office as well as outside to run," says Fladager. "I learned so much during the course of the Peterson case about how important it is that prosecutors work closely with law enforcement. That and you have to absolutely always keep the victims in mind with everything you do."

Meanwhile Peterson's comfort is not an overriding concern of prison authorities. In past years officials at San Quentin ordered metal screens installed in another section of the facility, partly to block off a view of San Francisco Bay that was considered too beautiful for inmates. Still, if life on death row has gotten Peterson down, it's not evident. "He's a sociopath," Crittendon believes. "As long as he's getting all this attention, he's going to be rather happy."

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ONE JUROR'S MESSAGE

Even now, more than eight months after they finished their work and disbanded, Richelle Nice and a handful of jurors from the Peterson trial still keep in touch on a weekly basis. But Nice is also hoping to reach out to another principal—namely Scott Peterson himself. With the encouragement of her therapist, whom she started seeing a week before the jury was sequestered, she recently mailed a four-page letter to Scott at San Quentin. "I don't think he'll ever answer it" says Nice, 35, a mother of four. "In it I tell him that we didn't hate him, we hate what he did. I tell him that if he wants to set Laci and Conner free, he should come clean." She remains haunted by the case. Recently she found herself driving past the prison on her way to a concert. "I couldn't take my eyes off the building," she says, "knowing that Scott was in there and what he did."

AMBER GREEN-LIGHTS A NEW LIFE

Her involvement in the Peterson case was a nightmarish ordeal, but in the past nine months, Amber Frey, 30, has worked her way to good fortune. Her book Witness: For the Prosecution of Scott Peterson was a No. 1 best-seller, and she sold the rights to her story to CBS, which turned it into a TV movie. With the money she has earned from those projects—her father, Ron, says she reaped more than $300,000 for the book alone—she purchased a new silver BMW and spent $400,000 to buy a plot of land in Clovis, near her hometown of Fresno, Calif., and have a custom home built on the site. Next year she hopes to open her own business in Fresno—a spa offering a combination of skin care, body building and massage therapy. All that is a long way from the darkest days of the Peterson case. "There were days when I didn't want to get out of bed," she says. "I would pick up the paper, and there I would be on the front page with the war in Iraq and Michael Jackson."

As much as she says she wants to return to a life of anonymity, Frey knows that isn't possible, at least for the foreseeable future. Walking on the streets, she regularly gets stopped by curious strangers. "Some people ask for autographs; more ask for a photo with me," says Frey. "The only time that it bothers me is when I'm with my children." And so, bowing to reality, Frey has put her privacy on hold a bit longer to lecture for the Learning Annex, discussing her experience as one of the central figures in the Peterson case. "I have a voice now," she says, "and I want to set the record straight." The subtitle of her lecture, which drew a heavy crowd of single women: How to Change Stumbling Blocks into Stepping Stones.

Not that everything in Frey's new life is smooth and shiny. She is no longer romantically involved with Dr. David Markovich, a chiropractor in Fresno, who is the father of their 1-year-old son, Justin. (Frey also has a daughter, Ayianna, 4, from a previous relationship.) As for her former flame Scott Peterson, now on death row, Frey says she does not think about him. "Never," she says. "I don't live in hindsight." Which is not to say that she carries any hatred for him. "A lot of people say they do," she says. "But I don't want to hold on to that negativity. I have forgiven Scott; it was the way to move forward."

Making Book

The families' war of words

Since that defining moment at the sentencing phase of the trial when Sharon Rocha confronted Scott Peterson and cried out in anguish, "Divorce is always an option, not murder," Laci's mom has largely resumed her silence. But that is soon to be broken. Rocha is working on a book about the case with PEOPLE's Todd Gold that will be published in January. Meanwhile the Petersons are grappling with some literary issues as well. The book Blood Brother, by Scott's half-sister Anne Bird, not only savaged Scott but also depicted their mom, Jackie Peterson, as a manipulator whose main goal was to protect her son. It also ended Bird's relationship with the Petersons. Denying she wrote the book just to make money, Bird points out that her observations about Scott, which she made to police during the investigation, would have emerged anyway. "My lawyer recommended that I go ahead and have my say before it was said for me," says Bird. "I thought that was the better choice." As for Jackie and Lee Peterson, they have floated their own book proposal—so far apparently with no takers.

She Disappeared Like Laci—and Suffered the Same Fate

It seemed inevitable that when La Toyia Figueroa, five months pregnant, vanished after visiting her obstetrician in Philadelphia on July 18, her story would be compared to Laci Peterson's. Some speculated, in fact, that she might have met the same grim end. Those worst fears proved true. Just after midnight on Aug. 20, detectives acting on a tip discovered La Toyia's body in a weed-choked vacant lot 18 miles west of the city. There, too, was her ex-boyfriend Stephen Poaches, 25, the father of the unborn baby girl, wearing a bullet-proof vest and carrying a loaded .45-cal. automatic. Police say he was there to move the body. But just the fact that he was there spoke volumes.

Authorities had already been looking hard at Poaches, a truck driver who was one of the last people to see the 24-year-old waitress alive. But after searches of his apartment and car turned up nothing, the investigation appeared to stall. Police finally got the break they had been hoping for on Aug. 17, when a friend of Poaches' contacted them and revealed that Poaches had asked him to help dispose of La Toyia's remains. After telling the caller to phone his information into a tip hotline so that he would be eligible for the $100,000 reward offered in the case, police told him to play along and set up their sting. When Poaches and his friend arrived at the lot in Chester, Pa., around midnight, homicide detectives were waiting.

Philadelphia Police Commissioner Sylvester Johnson says that Poaches confessed the next day to strangling La Toyia after they argued because he didn't want the baby. Though already the mother of a 7-year-old daughter, Inzhanne Williams, by her high school sweetheart, La Toyia had been eager to have the baby, says a friend, because she had ovarian cancer and needed a hysterectomy. Poaches, who has not yet entered a plea, is being held without bail on two counts of murder. "The only good thing about this," says Johnson, "is that the person responsible is in custody and hopefully he will never be able to harm anyone again in this lifetime."